


Destination Savior

by 2babyturtles



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Abuse, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Science Fiction, Destruction, F/M, Family, Gen, Hope, I Love You, Love, M/M, Not As Dark As The Tags Make It Sound, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Post canon, Sacrifice, Sacrificial Love, Suicide, hold on, impending doom, referenced abuse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-09
Updated: 2017-12-21
Packaged: 2019-02-12 10:21:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 9,255
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12957180
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/2babyturtles/pseuds/2babyturtles
Summary: It's been years since the universe broke, but not so many that it's too late to fix it. I was hardly happy to be the volunteer for that task but as I'm the only one that can do it, it seems I must. The British government can be /so/ convincing.Now I'm tasked with revisiting key points in history to stop the deaths of the two people who could make all the difference. Or at the very least, stop them from killing each other.





	1. To Father

Some part of me is aware that my job is not particularly difficult, and as I adjust my skirt and fidget nervously with the buttons on my blouse, I can’t help wondering whether I’m really the best fit for it. Of course, I’m the only person who can do it.

The residents of this apartment have been very kind to vacate it for the duration of the afternoon, and I hardly feel any rush to proceed. In theory, I have all the time in the world. In practice, I have a bad headache and a nervous twitch. But the clock still says five minutes ‘til noon, so I take a steadying breath and settle in to wait. I flip open my notebook to the first page and retrieve a pen from my pocket, prepared to begin the moment the scene changes.

The faded yellow wallpaper and distinct bullet holes are the first sign that I’m getting closer to my Destination, but it’s not until the clock strikes twelve that I am fully submerged. Sherlock Holmes stares at me with a funny expression as I materialize into his living room.

It’s hardly a leap to guess that he’s scared, but there’s little to be done about that. Everyone’s always scared to see me and I’ve given up trying to show up just around the corner or outside the door. For Sherlock Holmes, that precaution would be just as unnerving, as there would be no footsteps to warn him of my approach.

For a moment, he seems shocked into silence, but the clattering of dishes in the kitchen tells me we’re about to be interrupted by either John Watson or Mrs. Hudson. After a moment, the former comes around the corner with the cocky grin that tells me he’s managed to make something he doesn’t usually. The hungry look on his face when he glances up at Sherlock seems like it might be horrifyingly intimate, but luckily he sees me before it gets too gross.

“Oh, sorry, I didn’t hear you come in,” he says simply, settling his expression into something more appropriate for company.

“She didn’t,” Sherlock responds, slurring his words as though speech is a great effort for him in this moment.

“Sorry?” John asks, placing a saucer of tea down on Sherlock’s side table before taking his usual seat.

Sherlock merely narrows his eyes. There’s a strange look there, and I suddenly wonder if he can see through me. I glance down as imperceptibly as possible, ensuring that I have managed a fully corporeal appearance.  Unfortunately, he notices the shift—because of course he does—and presses his lips together, nodding as if I’ve satisfied some question of his. I cock an eyebrow and stare back at him with a level expression, resisting the urge to stick out my tongue.

“Hello,” I manage instead. “My name is Rebekah and I’m conducting interviews for a research project I’m working on. If you’re willing, I’d like to start with some basic questions about your roles in this world, and the dynamics that exist between each of you and other players in the field so to speak.”

John’s jaw has dropped and he looks characteristically confused. Sherlock is more reserved, but seems suspicious. I am used to both of these reactions and don’t bother with a response, knowing they won’t hear it anyway. Typically, it takes several minutes for Characters to process my introduction, and they can rarely understand anything more until they’ve finished.

“Did Mycroft send you?” Sherlock asks after a moment. He’s trying to look bored, it seems, but the suspicion doesn’t fade.

“’Fraid not,” I reply lightly, doing my best not to look amused. “How would you characterize your relationship with your brother, though? That’s as good a place to start as any.”

Sherlock’s eyes flit momentarily to John’s face, and I wave a hand. He seems to look through me again and this time I nod, making a note in my tablet, smirking when frustration brushes his face. My notes are exclusively in code, and there’s little hope even for Sherlock Holmes to figure it out during our brief interview.

“Poor,” he responds finally. He shifts in his seat so that he can cross his legs the other way and suddenly seems aware of his state of dress.

Wearing the usual blue satin robe and pajamas, he’s hardly prepared to receive guests. Of course, I won’t be spreading any gossip about him. John concludes his processing as Sherlock answers and chooses this moment to gawk at Sherlock with wide eyes. It’s not the first time he’s seen the detective remain underdressed for these things, but somehow it seems to disarm him as he apprehends the man.

“I’m sorry, who are you?” he blurts, looking back at me with a wrinkled question on his face.

“My name is Rebekah,” I repeat, smiling sweetly at him. The expression is cloying and Sherlock seems to recognize it for what it is. “I’m conducting interviews for research.”

“For whom?” he demands, his voice jarring and sharp. “For whom?” he shouts.

I sigh and clasp my hands over my notebook as the faded yellow wallpaper turns black and melts, taking the images of Sherlock Holmes and John Watson with it.

“You’re back,” a stiff voice in my ear observes.

I grimace, wishing it wouldn’t be so impertinent to remove the ear piece and deny the cocky man an answer. “Indeed,” I reply, forcing my voice to remain level.

“Is it safe to assume that your mission is incomplete?”

“Yes, of course it is,” I grouse, moving to my feet and snapping my notebook shut. I hardly want to bother with the chair but it seems rude to leave the living room out of order, and I shove it against the dining table with as much self-control as I can manage.

“Well then you’ll need to try again. We’ll debrief and see what can be done. Meet us at headquarters.”

It’s not correct to say the line _went dead_ because it’s not a phone, per se, and can hardly go dead. Regardless, it’s clear that no one is on the other end anymore and I can’t help feeling grateful. Carrying the British government around in my ear is hardly pleasant and having my head to myself is always preferable.

The stairs out of the apartment are neatly maintained and the distinctive creak of years past has long since been worked out. I’m not sure whether that makes me sad. Regardless, I make my way down them with gentle steps, collecting my coat from the hanger at the bottom. There’s a vehicle waiting for me outside and I pull the door to 221B shut with the knocker as I make my way to the curb.

“Ms. Holmes?” the driver asks as I approach. He’s kept the window rolled down to greet me, and I have no doubt he knows who I am. I cock an eyebrow and he nods, unlocking the back door for me to climb in. “Where to, ma’am?”

I want to scoff. I want to sigh. But these simple people hardly know they’re infuriating. “To father’s office,” I respond, as curtly as I can manage. “To Mycroft Holmes.”


	2. Nothing Happens To Me

It should come as no surprise that father’s _minions,_ as I like to call them, don’t like me. I haven’t yet figured out whether it’s my American accent, my age, or my insistence on being right (well I _am_ right), but something about me just seems to rub them the wrong way. I’ve been told that Sherlock Holmes used to do the same.

The familiar old brick building, hidden behind a wrought iron fence of the sort that should have a portcullis rather than a simple gate, offers little of the homey sorts of feelings others seem to get when they visit their parents. The shiny brass plate with the building number seems to glare at me as the car pulls us into the courtyard and I make a point of ignoring it. It’s not a number that sticks in my head the way 221B does, despite the fact that I never lived at the latter.

Climbing onto the worn cobblestone, I suppress a sigh and make my way inside. I’m sure father has hired hands to do things like greet guests, take coats, and show people in, but no one ever greets me and I navigate the marble halls alone. There’s little to be done about the horrendous clacking of my thick heels as I approach the door to father’s office. When I was little, I’d try to change my gait to see if I could convince him to think it was someone else coming to visit. I’ve since stopped playing games, but I’ve always wondered whether he was fooled.

I knock on the heavy wooden door and wait for the familiar, “Come in,” from father. It’s forthcoming and I push the door open hard, the effort it takes to move the thing always more than I expect.

“Hello, father,” I greet, smiling slightly. Sitting behind his desk, he stands and offers my forehead a kiss. He’s never been much for physical affection and I appreciate that he tries so hard; I reward the effort with a more sincere smile.

“Hello, madam,” he responds, using the same nickname he’s called me since I can remember. He almost smiles and his eyes get that funny crease that means he’s happy to see me. Unfortunately, then he frowns. “Your mission went unfulfilled,” he acknowledges. “But did you get anything useful at all?”

I’m sure that my expression is sassier than is strictly due. However irritated I am at the rather bland attitude he greets his own daughter with, I can’t deny that it is my fault today was such a waste. I sigh quietly and pull my notebook up where he can see it.

“Coded?” he asks. He always asks.

“Yes, of course. Not that there was much to code. John spent most of the encounter looking shocked, Sherlock described y’all’s relationship as ‘poor,’ and as usual, he seemed to see right through me,” I finish, tearing out the top page and passing it to him across the desk.

He purses his lips as he reads it and then opens a desk drawer and sets it in a growing pile of similar papers inside. “What ended the interaction?” he asks, although I’m sure he could guess.

“The Destination broke, again,” I grimace, disappointed in myself. “I should’ve been more careful. One of _them_ got through John.”

This time, his frown seems sincerely more sad and he rubs a hand across his forehead. Suddenly, he seems very old. “I see,” he replies quietly. After several moments of silence, he looks up at me again with tight lips. “Thank you for trying,” he murmurs. “I hope you won’t mind doing it again tomorrow?”

“I can do it again tonight if you have another Destination to check on. That one might’ve been a bit early anyway,” I reply, trying not to sound too eager. We’ve been on this mission for the better part of a year and most of that time has been spent on research and preparation. Now that we’ve finally begun, I can hardly wait to dive in.

Father’s eyes seem fixed on something I can’t see—and indeed they might be—and his expression is glazed for a moment. I don’t see a clock anywhere but I can hear it tick, and as father has little skills with computers, there are no electronic noises to obscure it. Regardless, I know better than to interrupt.

This is not uncommon for father, and he’ll likely have some grand new plan when he returns to the moment. I occupy myself with the portrait of Lady Smallwood that hangs on the wall to my left. It’s always fascinated me but I try not to spend too much time looking at it. It’s an old picture and there’s little use in searching for anything of myself in her features—father won’t confirm she’s my mother anyway. Shame I never got to ask her.

“No,” father speaks suddenly, jarring me from my contemplation. “I’d prefer you focused on identifying a better Destination. I’m not so sure Baker Street will give us what we need right now. Perhaps the site of a case? Spend some more time researching tonight and see what we can find for tomorrow.”

The corner of my mouth tugs downward, creasing my cheek with a mocking dimple. It’s only supposed to come out when I smile but I suppose I do that so rarely that it needs to take other opportunities. “Father, what if there’s a night time opportunity? Are we really only going to go back during the day?”

He acknowledges me with stark blue eyes, deep wrinkles emphasizing his refusal to negotiate, and I sigh, defeated. “That seems unlikely. We’ll only resort to it if we have to,” he murmurs.

Sometimes, father looks haunted. Not like the sort of men and women who say they’ve seen a ghost, but like the sort who are possessed by one. Of course, such notions are ridiculous. Which leaves me with the inevitable—and entirely worse—conclusion that he is haunting himself. I wonder what memories keep him awake at night but dare not ask.

“Alright,” I reply as lightly as I can manage. “I’ll be back in the morning. Which files should I take?”

He’s quiet for a moment, the starts of several sentences running behind his eyes as he discards those that won’t work, removes the fillers, and finally responds: “Would you like to stay here, tonight?”

“No,” I respond quickly, pushing to my feet and grabbing my notebook off the desk. “I’ll see you tomorrow, father.”

There’s no car waiting for me outside and I take a taxi home. There’s no one waiting for me at home either. Nothing happens to me.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> EDITED 12/10: To remove "y'all's" and the surrounding discussion.


	3. "Research"

My apartment is not particularly fascinating. I’ve often thought of moving someplace else—if I’m going to live in London, I should live someplace interesting, right?—but I don’t want father to think I’m ungrateful. He’s been paying for my apartment here and in America, plus plane trips back and forth for the past several years. Unfortunately, I hate flying and rarely go back to America. Regardless, father pays just in case. I suppose he doesn’t want me to feel stuck here.

That’s the funny thing about London—people know who I am. Maybe not the details, and they don’t know which Holmes I came from, but it matters to be a Holmes in London. In America, they ask about H. H. Holmes, which I’ll take a moment to say again is _not_ related to my family.

Anyway.

I thank the driver for dropping me off and climb the steps into my apartment. The wooden stairs creak and I don’t bother to step more carefully. A waxy scent tingles my nose as I open the door to my rooms and kick off my heels by the door. I’ve a bad habit of leaving my work clothes on all day but I do remember to take my shoes off at least.

Several candles line the windowsill and other exposed surfaces of the room, contributing to the sweet waxy scent, and I take a moment to light a few of them before settling in to make dinner. I know I’m supposed to research tonight, so naturally I choose a meal that will take lots of time to make.

My mind, however, doesn’t seem willing to drop the subject. With a sigh, I turn my chicken enchiladas into chicken fajitas and resign myself to a night of satisfying both my father and my curiosity. The problem is, I don’t know where to begin.

When dinner is done and I set my plate at my desk, I take a moment to ponder the filing cabinets full of documents. One benefit to father’s incessant observations of his brother during his life are that now there is no shortage of information to get me going on my task, but I have no way of knowing where the trigger point was. I have ideas of where it _wasn’t._

We know it wasn’t before John Watson and Mary Morstan got married, but we’re not sure if the wedding was one of the triggers. In any case, the wedding is not a good choice for Destination as there were simply too many people there. Besides, John was happy that day so there’s not a lot to examine.

I can’t help wondering whether it was a series of small triggers. It seems unlikely that there was one singular event that led to…what happened. Perhaps we’ve been looking in the wrong place?

I pull out the folders on Sherlock’s subsequent drug abuse and recovery, on Mary Morstan’s death, on Culverton Smith, and on Sherrinford. I frown at the last of these, wondering whether my aunt would’ve been able to help. Shame Sherrinford couldn’t keep her safe enough for me to find out. Father says I could get stuck if I try to visit her anyway, so perhaps it’s best to avoid her Destinations.

Today, I’d visited Sherlock and John just shortly before Sherlock’s fall and Moriarty’s death. Obviously, that hadn’t gone well, although it did offer confirmation that something was lurking beneath the surface of their relationship. John’s contorted face swims in my memory and I shake my head.

That’s the funny thing about the past—it typically refuses to stay there. We joke about hindsight 20/20, but rarely do we actually experience it. Unless, of course, you have the ability to materialize at a given point in history and discuss that moment with the people who experienced it. Heh.

I know father doesn’t want me to go back at night, as _they_ are more active then, but everything in my files seems to imply that at least a late evening visit would be best. What happened after Sherlock left John and the deceased Mary in the aquarium? What happened the night before he and John visited Culverton Smith at the hospital? These aren’t questions a file is going to answer for me.

I sigh and drop the paper I’d been examining. This seems so hopeless. Opening the nearest desk drawer as I take a bite of chicken, I retrieve my father’s commission. It isn’t long, and explains very little, but there had to be a paper trail for this to work.

_You have hereby been accepted as the primary traveler for the duration of this project, wherein the fate of Sherlock Holmes and his companion, John Watson, will be researched and, if possible, reversed. Any and all documents pertaining to this project should be treated as sensitive and confidential, used only for the furtherment of this project’s ultimate success._

I was too young to understand when Sherlock and John died, but I remember the way they laughed together. They seemed so happy, and it’s hard to believe that the demons and shadows that stalk their Destinations ever existed at all. I was close to Rosie when I was young but we haven’t spoken in ages. I wonder what she’d think of all this.

My hand twitches toward the phone. I know I’m not supposed to share any of this information with anybody else, but if Rosie could help… but could she help?

I slump back in my chair for just a moment before a decision forms in my mind. Grabbing the last of my fajita and pushing myself to my feet, I practically sprint across the room. I settle on a pair of sneakers this time, shoving them on over my pantyhose, and dash out the door.

Cool London air greets me and I don’t bother with a taxi, preferring the walk to the Destination I have in mind. Father would be so mad—he’s told me so many times not to visit this Destination. But we _have_ to know what happened. Father says he knows enough, but that can’t be right. We have to _know._

It’s not a long walk anyway, and soon I’m standing beside the River Thames. The churning black waters flow beneath me innocently, almost mockingly. I know the spot and choose my own place a dozen or so feet away. I can only hope that there weren’t any poles or benches here that day—usually I research my Destination a bit better, but that’s alright.

I check my watch and discover that I’m just a shade early. Considering the last-minuteness of this decision, I count myself lucky. With one gentle exhale, I let go of the world around me and fade slowly into the past. Into Sherlock Holmes’ past.

The changing weather is the first sign that I’ve done it, because it’s suddenly much colder than it had been when I left. I shiver, as much at the temperature as at its ominous nature. I can’t help wondering whether they would’ve lived if it had been warmer. Regardless, nothing I can do now.

I tell myself this repeatedly as I find an adequate hiding spot behind a trash can and resign to watching my uncle’s demise without acting on it. My eyes scan the scene desperately, hoping to find some sign of the demons I know must be here. When I spot them, they’re worse than I’d imagined.

Everyone has demons. Everyone has things that haunt them when they close their eyes and little desires they know better than to act on. Except that sometimes, they do act on them.

In this time and in this place, Sherlock and John’s demons became too strong. Whether they acted or their demons did doesn’t really matter. Whether they can be stopped is the whole point of this exercise, and that’s not going to be possible if I don’t really know what happens.

My bubbling anxiety is interrupted by the softest footsteps I’ve ever heard a man take. Sherlock moves into my vision and it’s as if he’s not even touching the ground beneath him. The gentle swishing of his Belstaff is louder than the sound of his neat dress shoes on the stone walkway.

To my surprise, he’s massively intoxicated. A bottle of golden liquid hangs from the fingers of his left hand, and a gun hangs from those of his right. Behind him, John Watson pants to keep up.

“Dammit, Sherlock,” the shorter man shouts, his own steps much louder than his friend’s. “Can’t you please just talk to me about this?” There’s fear in his voice, but not the sort of cold dread that might be expected. I wonder if he knows about the gun, and my question is answered when Sherlock turns and staggers away from him. “Sherlock?” John demands again, his voice strangled.

“I can’t do this again,” Sherlock slurs, gripping the gun more tightly.

Something isn’t right, although they don’t realize it yet. It’s vastly out of character for Sherlock to choose a _gun._ Drugs, sure. A rooftop, definitely. But a gun? The realization that that’s precisely why this is right wash over me and I suddenly feel nauseous.

The drugs, the roof, the highly dangerous adventures, none of it was meant to be the end. So now, when it is meant to be, he chooses something else. I wonder if it’s John’s gun. I wonder if it’s the same gun as that first night they met, and make a note to visit that Destination next.

Their demons seem hungry, eager, as they swirl darkly around their legs. Pulling Sherlock closer to the railing. Holding John in place with cold fear. There’s nothing to do but fight, now, and they don’t know that.

I press a cold hand over my mouth to stop the whimpers that threaten to leap from it. I’m sure they wouldn’t notice, but there’s no use in interrupting this Destination just in case. The objectivity with which I watch the scene unfold disturbs me, but I know I must be calculating if I’m to do my job.

Unfortunately, my job is to watch as Sherlock takes another step towards the railing and presses the gun against his temple at an angle, to ensure maximum damage. Slowly, as if they’re leaking out from his broken heart, Sherlock’s demons leave him. For just a moment, he’s alone. The clarity in his eyes might’ve been a sign that he’d save himself, but somehow it only seems to make his choice eaiser.

I’m looking at John when the gun goes off, and don’t see Sherlock slip out of sight, into the River Thames. I remember when father found out that it wasn’t the bullet that killed him. It’s always the fall, isn’t it?

John doesn’t know Sherlock will drown, and that the gunshot hasn’t done fatal damage. John doesn’t know that Sherlock might have survived in some state if it hadn’t been so cold. He doesn’t know that it will be his own fate he seals when he leaps over the rail after him.

His demons cheer and clap as they watch him climb onto the cold metal. What stands out more than anything, though, is that his demons let go. John is alone as he sits on the edge of the Thames, and his demons only watch from afar. For a moment, he hesitates, and it’s then that his face changes. Suddenly, he is complacent.

Closing his eyes, he simply leans forward. He doesn’t flail or kick or scream as he drops into those churning waters. He simply gives in. He must’ve known it was too late, because Sherlock’s body has already floated practically out of sight by the time John breaks the surface of the water.

I stand, abandoning my hiding place. But I don’t move. I’ve never seen demons so strong as these and my mind reels at the sight. As the Destination fades and I return slowly to my own world, I’m surprised to find hot tears on my cheeks. I suppose it shouldn’t be surprising, but I can’t help being a little stunned regardless.

One thought stings in my head to the exclusion of all else: John gave up.

Perhaps that sounds harsh. But after years spent thinking John made one last gallant attempt to save Sherlock from the river, I suddenly feel a little harsh. What triggered those demons?

I pull my phone from my pocket without even realizing what I’m doing. Scrolling until I find father’s contact, I punch out a quick text, pressing send without even reading it over.

**His demons didn’t kill him. -RH**

 

My legs feel sluggish as I take pounding steps away from the river. They move by themselves then, carrying me to the old buildings that started everything. Surely the first time John murdered a man for Sherlock would be a trigger point for the violence later, right? I have to know if it’s the same gun. If it’s the same demons.

It’s less than an hour before I’m standing outside the quiet college buildings. They are as empty tonight as they were all those years ago. I check my wristwatch again and find that I’m just barely on time. Funny how it all seems to have taken place at the same time of night. I’m shocked by my luck as I take a seat on the stairs and close my eyes, settling into the environment. With my Destination in mind, I sink slowly.

Unlike in 221B, there’s very little I can note a change in. However, a nearby tree slowly shrinks until it’s just barely a sapling, and I decide that I’ve probably done it. It’s also much warmer all of a sudden, and I realize the seasons have changed. Then I’ve definitely done it.

I return to my feet and glance around. An empty taxi is parked at the street, confirming that Sherlock and the murderer are already here. I choose ascend the front stairs of the building where John Watson will fire through a window, and make my way through the various hallways. By the time I find the room, John is already there and his scream digs into my chest.

“Sherlock!” he shouts. I realize now that he’s begging. This man who hardly even knows Sherlock Holmes has already decided he can’t be without him.

There’s a gun in his waistband and I don’t have to get close to see that it’s not the same one. He pulls it out and lines up his shot for just a moment before firing, but I’ve seen enough. There are no demons here except those that haunt every veteran. I sigh and make my way back out of the building, fading back into my own world as I do.

By the time I get back outside, my phone is ringing. Father’s name shows up on my caller ID and I answer it as calmly as possible.

“Hello,” I breathe, surprised by how big a strain it is to keep my tone steady.

He responds quickly and with clear frustration, as well as something else I can’t identify. “What did you hear?”

I sigh as I reach the main road and find a slim black car waiting for me. “I’m on my way,” I growl.

The line goes dead.


	4. Every Single Day

Describing father as angry wouldn’t be doing his feelings—or his expression—justice. Practically snarling, Mycroft Holmes is _standing outside_ awaiting my arrival. He’s standing outside. I don’t know how much you know about him, but Mycroft Holmes does _not_ stand outside, particularly at night, and particularly not to greet his not-quite-extraordinary-enough daughter.

My driver seems as aware of the tension as I am and grimaces sympathetically as he lets me out a safe distance from the man in the crisp suit. I sigh and open the door, stepping onto the cobblestone road.

“Hello, father,” I say for the second time today.

“Hello, madam.” He uses my nickname so it can’t be all bad. Except that there’s this one little spot under his eye that starts to sort of pucker when he’s really mad. Like he’s not looking down his nose at you enough so he needs to peer over his own physical form to see the scum that is you. In this case, ‘you’ is me, and I peer right back.

His fingers are stretched, as if he’s trying his hardest not to make a fist, and the way his hair is flattened against his head tells me he was just tucking in for the night when I texted him. However, his pressed suit tells me he’s gotten re-dressed, rather than having lounged about in what he wore earlier. He might’ve even ironed his previous outfit for all the ways they look alike.

The thing about being right, is that sometimes it’s still wrong. I got the right answer and I did the right thing, but sometimes, doing the right thing _isn’t_ the right thing. I try to keep this in mind as I look back at him, returning his piercing blue gaze. There’s a careful line between unwavering and defiant, and I manage the unwavering, level gaze almost perfectly. My posture, however, is not defiant, and father seems to relax.

“Come,” he murmurs, leading me back into the old building. A servant at the door is ready with a glass of whiskey for us each and I take mine gratefully. I hate whiskey but it’s rare for my father to offer anyone a drink, let alone me, and I’m grasping at ways to prove I’m not a disappointment.

The clack of my heels from earlier is replaced with the sticky thudding of my rubber-soled sneakers and I am reminded again of walking these halls as a child. Father seems much smaller now, and I wonder if I’ve grown or if all the weight of his life has finally caught up to him. Or perhaps he’s not smaller at all, and I simply wish he would be, for just one moment.

Walking deliberately past his office, father opens a similar wooden door a few down and seems to instinctively check over his shoulder. When he pulls his hand away from the handle, I notice that there’s a fingerprint scanner embedded in the wood and that he’s actually unlocked the door, not just pushed it open.

I grimace—locks like this are rarely used when there’s a loo on the other side and God forbid father lead me anywhere more interesting than that. It’s never good to be led somewhere interesting because ‘interesting’ usually means ‘dangerous’ and often ends with ‘you’re grounded’.

Questions burn in my mouth like acid but I know better than to ask them. Instead, my mind simply speeds up, searching for input from every sense that might give me insight or an immediate exit. The air on this side of the door is damp and musty, but clean, and I suspect we’re approaching a set of stairs into a cellar of sorts. There’s not much light but this is the 21st century and I suspect father is just choosing to ignore the light switches; he knows the way.

There’s no echoing, which could mean a number of things, but I get the feeling it simply means the hallway is short and the room at the end is full. It would be just like father to have a terrifying door and creepy hallway just to ward off eager eyes from prying into his private bar. But there’s a heavier scent than alcohol on my tongue and I think a private library is more likely. But who ever heard of a damp library?

“Stairs,” father warns with a soft whisper, confirming my suspicion as he takes the first step down.

When he speaks again, we’ve reached the bottom of the stairs and the end of a hallway. As I suspected, neither is particularly long. However, my surprise comes when father steps aside to reach for the handle of another door and my fingers brush the wall.

Expecting to find damp stone walls of the sort that all creepy cellars inherently _must_ have, I gasp when I find soft tapestry there instead. I suppress the growl that rises in my chest when I realize there’s no echo because they are dampened in the fabrics that line the wall, not because there is anything to be learned about the room at the end of the hall.

I’m further dismayed—or perhaps very grateful—when father opens the door to a dry, sterile room, with the distinct scent of electronics in the air. Evidently, he either believes everyone is as clever as he and seeks to fool them, or he simply enjoys the natural design of such rooms that allow him to always be the person who knows them best. I can’t believe the former, but hesitate to believe the latter. The universe is rarely so lazy as to include coincidence.

After fiddling with the lock for a moment, father finally manages to get it undone. I can’t help wondering whether he’s played at working it so much, but bite away those questions as well. Stepping back, he gestures for me to enter the room first, placing a guiding hand on my back when I hesitate.

“Do you remember Sherlock and John much?” he asks, not for the first time.

I tell him the same thing I’ve always said, speaking quietly so I can hear him as he shuffles around me and reaches for something to my left. Hopefully it’s a light switch.

“Not much,” I say.

“Do you remember how you felt about them?”

The lights come on and I blink blearily, surprised at their brightness. “Sherlock was a cup of tea, John was a cup of cocoa. They didn’t make a lot of sense together but somehow, they just belonged in the same place, as if it was a cosmic joke that they should ever have been anywhere else.”

I have more to say but it’s cut off as my eyes adjust to the light and I find myself standing in a room dedicated to Sherlock Holmes. If I had to guess, I’d say every book and newspaper article ever written about the great detective is present, neatly catalogued by some system that no doubt makes more sense to father than anyone else.

A collection of DVD cases are labeled with the dates and cases of various press releases and interviews, either of or about Sherlock and John. Rows of these artifacts line shelves that point firmly to the back of the room, where a massive television and simple disc player are perched atop a desk.

I don’t realize I’ve approached until I find my fingers tracing cup rings on the surface of the desk. When I turn, father is still standing by the door.

“Press play,” he whispers solemnly, some hint of a sad smile on his face. He gestures for the disc player and I do as I’m instructed, stepping back so I can see the whole of the television more clearly.

Of all of father’s resources, his ability to tap into every wired service in the country has always proven to be one of the most useful. Even his own vaguely time-travelling daughter (is it really time traveling if you don’t change anything when you go back?) can only provide so much information. But the CCTV from everywhere in Great Britain, and probably other countries, too? That’s nearly limitless.

It’s footage from one of these circuits that plays when I press the button on the front of the disc player. My throat is made of lead and my stomach threatens to dump its contents when Sherlock and John appear on the screen, the same scene playing out by the side of the Thames.

“How often do you watch this?” I ask, horrified.

I flinch as Sherlock disappears past the railing and there are tears in my eyes when I look back at father. He’s standing next to me now and he fixes me with hardened eyes. “Every single day since I lost him.”


	5. Keep Trying

Father’s shoulders are stiff for a moment and his expression is hard. I don’t have a good response, and my eyes linger on him, wordlessly expressing...what? What do I want to express even? Suddenly, the weight of the world lands on him and he curls in on himself.

His shoulders slump and his eyebrows pull together. He looks like a man who would cry if he hadn’t already dried up all his tears, and now he’s left only with burning grief in his stomach and stinging tear ducts.

His eyes never make it to the screen and I reach for the disc player without shifting my gaze so I can turn off the tape. Nodding, either gratefully or resignedly, he places one hand on my shoulder before turning and leading me back out of this strange dark room. The walls seem to have shrunk since we entered and I can’t get out fast enough.

People talk about feeling small when they’re caught red-handed or when they’ve been confronted by a fact they didn’t want to see. We describe people as _larger than life_ when they’re happy or famous, and we talk about being the _bigger man_ when you’re taking the high road. Right now, though, I feel huge.

I feel like I am standing several feet over everyone else and the weight of reality can’t seem to press in on me. As a result, I am aimless, useless, and ungainly. I am impossible and I am the center of a circus show of freaks to gawk at. Being large doesn’t feel good, and I wish I could shrink until I disappear.

I hardly notice we’ve made our way through the whole house until we arrive in the kitchen and father clicks on a single light. It doesn’t move—nothing in this house is archaic enough to swing or sway—and the effect is like a cold sun peering over a wintry hill. The room is filled with the too-sharp contrast that always seems to greet fluorescent lighting in dark places.

Shadows dance across father’s face as he fetches two bowls and a box of cereal, and I wonder whether it’s because of the lighting outside him or the feelings inside. He retrieves a carton of milk and pours us each some cocoa puffs. I’m not sure whether he even likes cocoa puffs, but I do. He’s always had some on hand, as long as I can remember. He always lets me drink his chocolate milk, too. At some point after I learned about the germ theory, this stopped being so appealing. But I still like eating cereal with him.

Taking the first perfect bite of crisp cereal and cold milk, father sighs and stares off into the distance. He seems resigned somehow, and it feels paradoxically like the tired quietness of two people who’ve just had a heavy conversation. It seem almost sacrilege to interrupt the weight of the silence, and I settle for taking a bite myself. We’re nearly halfway done with our bowls before he interrupts.

“John Watson was a soldier,” he starts. “From long before I met him until long after, that’s what he was. Not because that was his occupation, but because that’s what his character was.”

I’m sure my eyes are full of starry questions as I stare at my father, tracing the familiar lines of his hooked nose and weary smile. I hold them at bay and listen with rapt attention.

He continues with a warm voice, like a single note pealing from some instrument out of sight. “The true mark of a soldier isn’t that he fights, but that he serves. And, more than anything, that he sacrifices.” He swirls his spoon through a clump of cocoa puffs and scoops up several, examining them with a careful eye. “John Watson was not a man to give up, nor did he ever. He was a man who fought and served until his last breath, and went down with his cause. There is little else that could’ve been asked of him.”

I’m quiet for several moments, trying to force my thoughts to make sense. “But if he’d lived...if he’d kept fighting just a little longer, just a little harder....”

“Then we would have no hope of retrieving either of them. Nor would I want to bring Sherlock back into a world that did not feature John Watson. It is both or it is neither.” There’s something strange in his eyes when he looks at me again. He put the spoonful in his mouth but seems to forget about it and doesn’t chew. He doesn’t move at all, staring at me as though he’s never seen me before.

“You really think that’s possible?” I ask quietly, shrinking under his gaze.

“I really think it’s going to happen. It is an inevitability that you, of all people, should be the cause of his re-emergence from hell.”

I scoff and sit back, looking back at him now. My arms hang limply against the counter and I wonder how defiant I look now. “From hell? Father, if we bring him back, will he start from here? Decades younger than his big brother, in a London he never knew? Or will it all go back? Will I disappear then? You said yourself that you and Lady Smallwood only took each other’s company out of loneliness.” He opens his mouth to interrupt but I keep going. “If you hadn’t lost Sherlock, would you have taken to Lady Smallwood?”

Father closes his eyes. “You are not Lady Smallwood’s daughter, madam. You know that quite as well as I do.”

“I know that you maintain that. But she’s the only woman I’ve known you to be with so you don’t have to pretend. I don’t see you being the kind to engage in a one-night-stand, either.”

We glare at each other in the sharp kitchen. Well, I glare at him. He doesn’t open his eyes. I can’t decide whether I’m grateful to avoid the piercing blue eyes or whether I’m frustrated by his indifference to my frustration.

After a few more minutes, I give up. It strikes me that tremendous amounts of time are passing and when I glance at the clock in the stove, I’m hardly surprised to discover it’s already eleven at night. I yawn pointedly but father hardly seems to care.

“What would you have me do?” I ask finally, sighing inwardly and leaning forward for another bite of cereal. It’s soggy now and I frown.

“I would have you keep trying,” father responds, pushing himself to his feet and taking his bowl to the sink. “And next time you go back, don’t bring your own demons with you.”

I gap at him as he leaves the room. Quickly deciding that I’m going to stay the night, I let the weight of today crumble me into the counter and place my cheek against the cold marble surface. A grumble builds in my chest but by the time it comes out of my mouth it’s a broken sob. I wonder if my reflection would stare back at me if I peered into the glossy surface of the counter, and I wonder if I want to see it.

I close my eyes instead. Father is usually right, even though I hate to admit it. In this case, I especially don’t want to admit it. More than anything, I don’t want him to be right. There’s a deep fear in me that it’s my own demons that carry Sherlock and John off the edge every time, and my own demons that burst through the seams of the past.

The image of John Watson, his face distorted with such anger and betrayal as _someone’s_ demons pour through his likeness float back to my mind as I recall my first Destination today. If it’s my own demons that’s keeping Sherlock and John wholly dead, it’s hardly likely that I can bring them back, now can I?

But if I bring them back, will I even exist? I can’t help worrying that my demons don’t rest until I find out whether my own father is really asking me to disappear just to get his brother back. Of course, that’s exactly the point isn’t it? I close my eyes against my reflection and disappear into sleep.


	6. Leaning Forward

I don’t choose a corporeal form this morning. It’s been several days since I stayed the night at father’s and we’ve been working on identifying my own demons since then. Pardon the language, but I fucking hate it.

You don’t know this yet—or maybe you’ve guessed—but Sherlock Holmes isn’t my first introduction to suicide. At the ripe age of fourteen, I tried to take my own life. I don’t think I tried very hard and now I can look back and be grateful that I was more desperate than done and more scared than sad. But since then, father has been particularly watchful over me.

I never turned to drugs the way uncle did or to isolation the way father did (don’t tell him I said that), but let me be the first to say that we all have our own demons. I hate to think it was mine that pushed Sherlock off the edge into the Thames, and in fact I’m sure that it’s not—that would be quite impossible. But I can’t help wondering if it’s my demons that keep him there.

I haven’t been perfectly honest with you, reader, and as I sit here, watching Sherlock Holmes go about his day some fifteen years ago, I can’t help feeling a little guilty about that. John’s not here right now and Sherlock has been focusing on his own steepled fingers for the past hour or so. Sitting in John’s chair, hardly more than a ghost, I’ve been focused on his face. This is only a week or so before their deaths and their impending doom makes me feel eerie.

The thing is, I’m not really going into the past at all. I’m just seeing it. Sure, I can see the demons, too, but I can’t actually influence anything that happens in the past. That’s why father and I agree that it’s my own demons booting me from the scenes, because I can’t change what Sherlock and John’s demons did.

However, I _can_ change the outcome of the past. But only once. I’m not sure how to explain it because obviously I’ve never done it. It’s like a nub in the pit of my stomach and I can just feel it. Like when you think about running and you focus on your leg muscles and you just know the sort of power they contain. I’ve no doubt that I can change the outcome of the past, except that I don’t know how it will work.

Whether I will bring Sherlock and John here, to the present moment as it would be had they not died—or had they not done whatever we undo—or whether I’ll send all of us back isn’t clear. How could it be?

So now, we’re trying to _fix_ me, get me ready for the fast-approaching big day. I sigh as I watch Sherlock. He lifts one eyebrow pensively and then lowers it again just as fast. I mirror the movement, wondering what it would be like to be just inside his head. Without really meaning to, I lean forward and press into the floor. If I was corporeal, I would lean against his leg and gaze up at him with eyes full of questions. As it is, I simply watch.

He breathes slowly, as if he wants to sigh or yawn but settles for a more relaxed state. His eyelashes flutter for a moment before he closes his eye. It’s strange knowing someone who doesn’t know me. I know so much about this man and I’ve watched some of his most intimate memories, but he would hardly remember me if he were alive. We’d only met a couple of times.

“Memories can resurface. Wounds can reopen,” he suddenly murmurs, speaking as if he’s reading something. “The roads we walk have demons beneath, and yours have been waiting for a very long time.”

Opening his mouth to draw in one long breath, he allows his eyes to open, too, and gazes at me with a strange expression.

Fuck.

I didn’t mean to go corporeal.

“Hello,” he whispers.

My eyebrows come down and I wonder how I must’ve missed him taking enough drugs not to worry about a random woman in his flat.

“Hello,” I respond quietly. It’s suddenly very obvious to me that I’m sitting at his knee like a close friend rather than the strange he must think I am. Somehow, the closeness is comforting. I want to cry and I suddenly wish I were a child again, small enough to crawl into Uncle Sherlock’s lap.

“It’s a bit funny,” he murmurs, a small smile dancing at his mouth. “You look precisely like…like a girl I know.”

Leaning forward, Sherlock fixes me with such startling blue eyes and a severe expression that I can’t help laughing. “You look precisely like your brother,” I reply, deciding it’s probably best not to identify myself just yet.

Sherlock rolls his eyes and sits back in his chair, dropping his arms onto the sides. He looks at me with what is probably meant to be a disgusted expression but somehow he manages to look amused anyway. I can’t help noticing the way his tousled black curls dance around his face.

“Except not quite,” he responds after a moment’s observation. “You’re wondering where I got my exceptional good looks while Mycroft looks like a mildly hairy turnip in a suit.”

I laugh again, enjoying this conversation. It doesn’t seem appropriate to take John’s chair now that I’m visible, so I fall back into a seated position on the floor and lean against the foot of the chair instead.

“Not in so many words,” I reply. “Actually, I was wondering what you do to keep your hair so reasonable. Mine never seems to stay calm.” I reach up for a handful of my own dark curls and frown at them, wishing they could be half as shapely as Sherlock’s.

His expression is strange when I look back up at him. Something tells me that he would like very much to laugh at what I’ve said but for some bad memory associated with my actions. “Irene said much the same thing once,” he replies after a moment. “That’s part of why she always kept it up. Of course, I rather liked it down.”

I raise my eyebrows, intrigued by his openness. See what I mean? I can’t quite change the past, but I can get it to talk. He’ll answer exactly as if this is all real. Shame, really, that it’s not. “Did you see it down very often?”

This time, Sherlock smiles warmly. “Are you asking me whether I engaged in coitus with The Woman? You sound like John. If it matters any, yes I did. Once.”

“Just once?” I laugh, “That good?”

“Once was quite enough, I assure you. It was good but John was at home and I…I just….”

I hope my smile is just as warm. “There’s not much point going shopping when there’s a meal ready at home for you.”

He smiles at the metaphor. “No, but just that once, it was lovely. Irene was always such a lovely woman.”

“Do you still see her?”

“No,” he frowns. “We saw each other once since then, so it must’ve been just under ten years ago. But I’ve been with John for most of that time and I hardly think he’d be thrilled to have her around.”

“Do you know precisely when you saw her last?” I push, the sudden sensation that an important Destination is becoming available building in my stomach. I don’t think it’d be a good idea to reach for my notebook, so I settle on a quick thought, hoping my memory will be sustainable.

My mind reels at his answer. “That’s just shortly before I was born,” I laugh, surprised.

His eyebrows furrow. “That couldn’t be. You’re what, twenty-five?”

I’m pushing myself to my feet as I answer and the corners of my vision are turning black as I pull out of this Destination. “Just,” I respond. He doesn’t hear me and as I disappear from his vision he returns to his own world, a memory that I was only temporarily granted access to.

But it’s not my demons that dump me soundly back in the modern world. It’s a cold sensation in my stomach. It seems silly to question everything because a few dates line up but as I brush my dark curls out of my face, I can’t help wondering….

I pull out my phone and send a text, hunting for the information that I’m so desperately hoping isn’t important: **Last encounter with Irene Adler. ~RH**

The reply is forthcoming: **St. James’s Park, December 25 th**

A second text with the year comes and I can’t help wondering—or fearing—that it’s nerves or hesitation that stills the hand that texts me. I blink, trying to regain composure as I stare down at the number on the screen and prepare myself to enter a world before I existed.


End file.
